


Making A Point

by becisvolatile



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Avenger's Upstate Facility, Brief Mentions of Past Sexual Abuse, Darcy in training, Darcy is totally fucking capable, F/M, Flooooof, Just not always, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Romance, Secret Identity, Socially awkward Situations, Steve is a toad and Bucky is a bearded mountain man, The author is trash, i guess, okay?, unprotected sex, yay!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-10 11:49:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4390772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/becisvolatile/pseuds/becisvolatile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well, that’s a deal-breaker then, isn’t it?” Jane announced as she chewed on her thumbnail and fussed with something just outside of the dimensions of the Skype window.</p><p>“The beard?” Darcy asked.</p><p>Jane sighed and focussed on the camera. “The part where he might be a former Hydra assassin.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> So weeks ago I put out a prompt call and got a heap of great prompts, one being from fiora-miriel about Darcy embarrassing herself in front of Steve. Which, of course, gave me Darcy/Bucky feels. Right? Anyway, since she kindly said she was cool with Darcy/Bucky as well, that's what this is. Split into two parts with the next just being finished off now and to be posted in a day or two.
> 
> Unbeta'd because I am an unrepentant shithead.

The first time Darcy Lewis saw Captain America in the flesh, she was actually throwing up into an artfully landscaped serenity garden.That wasn’t the shitty part: the shitty part was that it’s also the first time _he_ saw her.

She’d been running laps. The whole group was, but she was wildly behind sucking in air like a two-pack-a-day smoker and generally making a spectacle of herself, her heaving chest testing the limits of her already woefully overburdened sports bra. 

If Hydra didn’t kill her then the Avenger’s training probably would. There was no need for the training to be so intense, she thought sullenly, it was _acquaint_ training. Not even agent training, just a sort of fast-track course that was supposed to stop her from getting herself killed while tagging along with the big boys. 

She didn’t have some deep-seated yen to become a blooded agent, she just kind of wanted to live to be old enough to have paid off her student loans. Then again, the idea blossomed in her mind, if she _did_ die… they’d probably be written off, wouldn’t they?

Out of the corner of her eye, Darcy watched as Steve tactfully slunk away, sun catching on his shield as he turned his back toward her. The indignity, however, wasn’t over. She was still busily interspersing retches with moans of abject misery when a hard hand gripped the back of her neck and roughly angled her so that she was less likely to puke on her own trainers. She didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

It had been two weeks and she still hadn’t managed to work out what his deal was. To her he was nothing but an endlessly present concoction of beard, hair and hoodies. Just some weird guy who observed and occasionally demonstrated to the class - but was never really identified. Often he just held up a wall with his shoulder, coffee in hand, as he silently judged her every fault and misstep.  Instructor? Agent? Vomit enthusiast? Darcy didn’t have a name for him so she’d settled on ‘ _Tall, dark and probably has bodies in his trunk_ ’.

“S’there a log cabin in the woods you gotta get back to?” she muttered with a sour mouth as she shrugged out of his grip and tried to move away from the site of her disgrace.

He shrugged as if he could honestly care less if she passed out in a pool of her own vomit or made some sort of recovery. “Keep running, then.” His voice was soft and had a rough edge from disuse. She might have recovered some of her manners and thanked him for the help, but he was already striding away, gravel crunching beneath the heel of his massive combat boots. 

 

* * *

 

Darcy had always thought she was at her most uncomfortable holding babies. _Truly, they needed to come with ‘this way up’ stickers affixed._ Yet she was quickly reshuffling the list as she nervously pinched the butt of her Browning Hi Power handgun and eyed it in dismay.

“Just holster it and line out in front your target,” Delvega sighed, not offering her a hint of support.

She shuffled away from the armoury window as she stuffed the gun into her thigh holster. 

The indoor range was cool and dark, sure it was shiny and new, but not a natural habitat for her. A taser? Yeah, she could handle that when the need arose. But a gun? Something that could kill? _Not_ her style. She suppressed a shiver as she stepped up to her booth and looked down at the pre-loaded magazines already waiting for her on the bench. 

“Detail,” Darcy’s spine stiffened as a familiar voice descended from the PA system, “With a magazine containing ten rounds, _load, action._ ”

Most of her peers loved the days when Rogers put in an appearance at training. Not her, those were the days she fucked up mightily. It didn’t bode well that he’d show up on the very day she got to wield a live weapon for the first time.

Darcy reached for the first magazine with shaky fingers and sent it clattering to the floor. _Shit_. She dove for the magazine, but ended up squatting painfully when her thigh holster pulled tight, biting into her inner thigh and generally displacing her lady parts. Which was how she came to be crab walking in the small space of her booth, arm extended as she tried to flick her magazine closer, when her own personal shadow materialized. He was a little more polished that day, by his own standard. Black cargo pants tucked into highly polished tactical boots. He wore an honest-to-God _Tactical Turtleneck_ and leather gloves and she might have sworn that his mouth twitched as he looked down at her. But honestly, with that wildebeest still clinging to his face? Who knew? Not that it wasn’t, in some small measure, working for him. Plus he deserved mad kudos for being the first person since Steven Seagal to wear a top-knot and get away with it. But then who was going to tell a guy that gave off definite ‘soldier of fortune’ vibes that his hairstyle was lame? 

If this were a late-90s movie this would have been the part where the socially graceless Eliza Dolittle character cast off her cat themed sweaters and revealed the bangin’ bod beneath… And had she not been in the midst of trying to massage a pulse back into her leg, while scrambling for live ammunition, she might have taken a moment to admire the way that the shirt _did things_ to his body. But she didn’t. Instead she made a small noise of dismay as she finally latched onto the magazine and he grabbed a fistful of the back of her shirt and hauled her up. 

“You never fail to entertain, Lewis. Gonna stop dickin’ around on the range?” And then brisk hands were yanking her webbing this way and that as he muttered, “Love what it does you your ass, but it ain’t a fashion statement. Wear it tight enough that you won’t get snagged on things, not so tight you can’t move.”

With the tiniest snort of disgust Darcy swung her hip to dislodge his hands and reached for her handgun. She was a little shaky as she jammed the magazine into the butt and took a second to push some safety goggles onto her face. Behind her, her instructor grabbed a set of noise-cancelling ear defenders and stuffed them roughly on her head. The scent of peppermint and coffee cut through the funk of spent explosive propellant and gun oil.  She wanted his proximity to make her uncomfortable, to feel some sort of upset at the way he crowded into the small booth behind her, but she’d be damned if she didn’t feel better with him there.

He reached out and plucked at one of her earpieces, speaking into the small space he’d created. “Why you so worked up, Lewis? You topped the class in marksmanship principles and maintenance theory. You’re good.”

Okay, yeah. But what if she wasn’t? What if she accidentally shot her own foot off or-

“Lane seven,” Christ, it was Rogers’ voice. “Cock your weapon, safety on, up on aim until you receive further direction.”

A small mewl of distress caught in her throat as she gripped the slide with a sweaty hand and tried to yank it back. It didn’t budge. Darcy readjusted her grip, tried again. No joy. Her mind stumbled over lessons and drills and her breath became short before one firm, hot hand gripped her hip and her cursed shadow dragged her back until she smacked against his chest. He reached out around her shoulders, one long arm running down hers to take charge of the handgun, while the other smacked against the bottom of the magazine, clicking it firmly into place. Of course, the damn thing would never have cocked without the mag firmly seated. 

The target in her lane was illuminated and she _thought_ she might have felt a small, reassuring squeeze against her hip as he stepped back, but her focus had shifted entirely to cocking and aiming her weapon so it was hard to recall.

 

* * *

 

“I c…an’t feel my ass,” Darcy gasped as she slowed to an uneven lope in an attempt to recover from her final lap. The rest of the class had retired to the showers just as she’d been starting her ninth lap, she’d been excused too but had stubbornly (and a little regrettably) stuck it out.

And there he was, the lone spectator who’d hung around to watch. She must have looked pathetic as she shuffled and stumbled through her final lap, but she’d suppressed the need to puke and that had to count for _something._

“I promise you, it’s still there.”

“Huh?”

“Your…uh… ass?” He’d forgone the usual tactical getup in favour of a black tracksuit, hoodie pulled up over his unkempt hair, late afternoon wind whipping his cheeks pink as he stuff his hands into his pockets for warmth. “Do your shoelace up,” he nodded to the offending shoe.

“Yeah, gimme a sec,” she muttered sourly as she hopped from foot to foot, trying to stay warm as the sweat cooled on her skin. She swept a few sticky tendrils of hair out of her face and regarded him openly, not backing down when he scowled in return.

Darcy had come to the decision that he had some sort of _Deal™._ Take Sam, who had in the first instance seemed like a totally normal, very cool dude. He was, of course, still very cool but it turned out that he was also an Avenger and _could fly._ Turned out that half the people living at the Avenger’s upstate facility had some pretty neat superhero party tricks going on and Darcy was fairly certain that this guy did too. “You got a name?” she asked suddenly, hand coming up to rest on one hip.

“I do…” he said slowly, as if trying to step around the subject.

“And?”

There was a pause and she _just_ managed to make out the hesitant pout beneath his facial topiary before he said, “Call me ‘Sarge’.”

“‘Sarge’? As in ‘Sergeant’?” She screwed up her nose in displeasure. “That’s a rank, not a name.”

“It’ll serve for now.”

Like _Hell_ it would. Darcy sniffed, trying for an air of indifference to mask the unaccountable wave of hurt. Sarge? Fine. _Fine._ It was just that… well. Why had he spent so much time half up her ass if he didn’t even care enough to give her his damn name? What was with that? Why all the hanging back and helping if he was going to be a dick anyway?

Whatever. It was fine. She didn’t need to bond with a man who didn’t have a name and could barely show his face.

His beard was stupid anyway.

Darcy turned on her heel, readying herself to jog away, hoping like Hell her poor legs could hold out for this last defiant canter toward the main building. As it turned out, her legs _did_ hold out. It was her undone shoelace that made her come unstuck and as she flailed mid-air, dirt and gravel rushing toward her, she felt a righteous sort of anger surge. It hurt like Hell and she might have stayed down, determined not to look across the few feet of space to where he stood but he was already there, hand fisting into the back of her shirt and hauling her up to her feet. Her eyes misted in response to the nasty pain prickling along one knee and thigh, but she worked hard to keep her face neutral as she mentally _dared_ him to say One. Fucking. Word.

He remained blessedly silent as she limped away, dragging the rotting carcass of her dignity behind her.

 

* * *

 

Thursday was usually the night that the students on the acquaint course took a van into the nearby town and had dinner and beers at Sammie’s Steak House. It had quickly become the highlight of Darcy’s week while on course, but that night she’d chosen to stay in her room with two tubs of instant ramen. She was taking the time to (literally) tend her wounds and (figuratively) lick some others. Plus, it wasn’t a _total_ sulk-fest. Wanda had approached her the previous day, clutching the pristine white packaging of a new MacBook to her chest.

“My first,” she’d explained with a quiet smile. “I never really… well, I couldn’t afford one before.”

But more precious than the MacBook was the small USB storage stick that she’d held carefully between her fingers. It was scratched, old and rattled a little ominously when Darcy had handled it. “I - _we_ \- never had FaceBook because it was too easy to track, but some friends… there were photos over the years, of my brother, they saved them on this for me. Could you help me put them on my laptop?”

Wanda was due to show up any time after six, so at a quarter to six when her door rattled with a firm knock Darcy was a little thrown, but not entirely shocked. She was only a few minutes out of the shower, her wet hair roughly braided, a pair of staid pink and black polka-dotted panties pulled gingerly over her injured leg and a (reproduction) grey S.S.R. t-shirt hitting her mid-thigh. She’d meant to take some time to pluck those last few tenacious bits of gravel out of her leg before disinfecting and dressing it. It seemed smarter to invite Wanda in and get her started on setting up the Mac while Darcy took care of her leg. Actually, that was the more sensible option, because a spare set of hands would help her tape down the dressing.

“Okay, Wanda,” Darcy called as she limped over to her door, “For my IT support: I take payment in Hot Tamales and sexual favours…”

Darcy threw open her door with a grin.

“And here I am, fresh out of Hot Tamales.” Because _of course_ ‘Sarge’ was going to be standing in her doorway. He too had showered, this time he wore a dark grey tracksuit, his hoodie hanging open over a maroon shirt. His hair was pulled back into a messy bun, his beard neatly combed. He wore a black leather glove on one hand and Darcy mentally narrowed her suspicions about his _Deal™_ to that one hand. “May I come in?”

Darcy nodded jerkily and tried to sneakily tug at the hem of her shirt as he passed. She tried not to moan indecently as she caught the heady scent of bergamot and clove. Christ, just look at her: sniffing some guy she barely knew, probably didn’t like (the jury was out) and who could well be hiding a weak chin beneath his monstrous beard. Clearly the increased exercise had put her hormones out of whack. Darcy closed the door and turned back into the room.

“How is your leg?” He spoke to a point on the wall just left of her ear, as if determined not to let his eyes rove over her. Darcy wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or he got extra points for that.

She wanted to brush it off, act like it was barely a scratch, but he chose that moment to look down at her raw, messy thigh and knee. She’d done her best to clean it out in the shower, but the hot water and pressure had reduced her to tears several times over and small spots on the scrape had started to bleed as she’d dug tiny stones and bits of gravel from it. Even then, small cuts steadily wept blood and gunk. “I was gonna, y’know, dig at it with some tweezers,” As she said it, bile rose in her throat at the thought of pain to come.

“You didn’t go to dinner?” He returned his eyes to her face.

“By the time I finished my laps and showered… I wouldn’t have made it in time.”

“They didn’t wait?”

Darcy lifted a shoulder, “They offered, but I wasn’t really in the mood.”

“Because you’re in pain,” he surmised for himself, even if he was a little off-base. He frowned then, looking almost angry at _himself_ as if he could have stopped her from being churlish and falling because she hadn’t heeded his advice about tying her own damn shoelace. He stuffed his gloveless hand into the bulky pocket of his hoodie and produced a Clif Bar. 

“It’s okay,” Darcy waved toward her desk. “I have noodles.”

“You need protein. You’re losing so much weight and-” He shrugged helplessly and threw the bar down onto her desk. It was chocolate brownie flavor. “I got carrot cake flavor in my room too, if you want.”

“Those your favorite?”

He gave a small nod and Darcy officially knew one fact about him. It was a gesture that inspired a little goodwill. “You need something, Sarge?”

In response he started emptying the pockets of his track pants and the remaining pocket of his hoodie. Dressings, plastic ampoules of saline solution, iodine, tape, plastic wrapped tweezers, forceps and scissors were all added to the impressive pile on her desk. “I can help. Wasn’t a field medic, but I picked up a few tricks here and there.”

Fact number two. “Where do you want me?” Not the smartest phraseology, given her state of undress and the way her bra-free breasts were happily perking up against the oft-washed fabric of her shirt, as if vying for his attention. She wasn’t an idiot (all present evidence to the contrary), she knew she was turned on. Knew _he_ was turning her on. Beards, heroes and wounded-animal eyes had never been her wheelhouse before, but she was self-aware enough to admit that he was _doing it_ for her. Unacceptable, of course, but fact. His tongue darted out to dampen his lips as they opened and closed helplessly for just a second before she took pity and perched her ass against her desk, turning her injured leg out for inspection.

She was about to drag the desk chair across for him to sit on when he stepped up to her and dropped to _his knees._ He settled down on the floor in front of her, saline and tweezers in hand, as she passed shaky fingers over her mouth and rolled her eyes heavenward. _Parts_ of her were certainly okay with the new arrangement, but she had to give herself a stern mental reminder to _reel it in_ because it was not the time to be getting warm for his form. Even if she could have _sworn_ that she felt him huff out a little frustrated breath that blew hot and damp against the cotton of her underwear. 

Darcy watched as he busied himself peeling the tweezers out of their plastic. He took them firmly in his gloved hand and leaned in to look closely at her wound. 

“Can you hear that?” she asked suddenly. There was a buzzing noise, slight, like a small fan. She looked toward her laptop, but it was still shut.

“It’s the air con,” he said quickly and his uncovered hand framed the graze and held her in place as he began to pluck the gravel from her wound with remarkable precision. Darcy put up a brave front as he carried on, but even with a brave front a few hisses managed to escape and with each noise she made his broad shoulders bunched up guiltily.

“Not too shabby,” Darcy noted, some time later, with a tremulous smile as his bare thumb smoothed over the final piece of tape securing the dressing.

“Once the bleeding is done, you can take it off,” he murmured, eyes drifting over her hips and… though she’d been hyperaware of their situation throughout, it seemed that he had only just discovered how close he was. Close enough to be conversing with her vag, basically.

She was waiting for him to sit back on his heels, move away. Instead - as if held in thrall - his breath became shorter, ghosting once more against the delicate skin beneath her underwear. She wasn’t sure if she reached for him first, lancing her fingers into his hair, or if he leaned in to run his hands up the back of her thighs with determination. His fingers dug into her flesh, tugging, coaxing them wider. It was a helluva view: the impressive bulk of her antagonistic mountain man curled in on himself, kneeling between her thighs with his mouth barely an inch from her-

Silver flashed as he leaned further in an the neck of his t-shirt drooped enough for her to spot his shoulder. Darcy was a quick girl, but even she couldn’t keep up the the barrage of new intel rushing at her. It seemed to her that his silver - _metal_ \- arm should be significant. It was certainly setting off enough alarm bells in her head. Her fingers flexed against his scalp, the only physical indication of her surprise, but it was enough to break the spell. ‘Sarge’ was already falling back onto his hands, quickly pushing himself to his feet as his eyes moved frantically around the room, _anywhere_ but on her.

“Thanks for the patch-up,” Darcy said, giving him an ‘out’. She waved toward the door and he didn’t hesitate to use it. He was slowed, just a little as he sidestepped Wanda, who had been preparing to knock. Wanda didn’t miss a beat as she stared into the room and took in Darcy’s state of disarray and breathlessness.

“You want me to leave?” Wanda asked.

“No.”

She narrowed her eyes and stared out in the direction ‘Sarge’ had gone. “You want me to make him think he has bees for teeth?”

Darcy pulled a face at the horrific thought, “You can _do_ that?”

“Maybe,” Wanda gave a careless shrug as she closed the door and dropped her Mac gently onto Darcy’s bed. “Maybe not.” Then, “Probably.”

“You know his name?” Darcy lifted a single eyebrow in question as she grabbed a pair of yoga pants from her wardrobe and carefully stepped into them.

“If you don’t already know, I can’t be the one to say,” Wanda shrugged apologetically.

“But you’re okay with making him think he has bees for teeth?” Darcy asked.

“I interpret the Captain’s orders as I choose.”


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She was sending the wrong message, dry humping had a way of saying ‘bend me over the desk’ and what she was aiming for was ‘bend me over the desk respectfully’.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never meant for this to blow out so far. I am actual trash who is never sleeping again.
> 
> Unbeta'd because... well, see trash statement. I did try my best to 'Muricanize this bad boy though, but I'm sure I've missed some bits.

“I want you to ask her out.”

“Funny,” Steve dropped the weight bar back into the bracket and stared up at Bucky’s chin. “That’s what I was going to say to you.”

Bucky stared down at Steve, eyes narrowed as he started to stack more weight onto the bar for his own set.

“Scowl all you want, Buck. Can’t see it under the beard.”

Steve curled up to sit on the edge of the bench, leaving space for Bucky to drop down beside him. Bucky sat with a ‘thump’ and immediately dropped his head into his hands with a pathetic groan. He was _six_ sorts of stupid. More. He was in danger of out-stupiding Steve, no mean feat considering that he’d just started a war with half the world, then settled in to a very public upstate facility.

But, _damn,_ Lewis was an easy girl to get stupid over. He couldn’t shake the smell of fresh-washed woman, apple and something darker, like a slow-running liqueur. He reached up and wrapped his prosthetic hand around the weight bar, gripping tight as he imagined what could have happened if she hadn’t startled. The chance to bury his face between her thighs was better than scum like him deserved. But that wouldn’t have stopped him. He’d have lapped her up then taken his time with the full lush tits pressing against the thin fabric of her shirt. He reached down and adjusted his rapidly rousing dick as he side-eyed Steve.

He’d gone to her room with a mind to see that she was okay, drop off the medical supplies and then _leave._ And the real kicker was: if he had a do over he’d have done it all again. Only quicker.

“Buck,” Steve interrupted his thoughts with a nod to the bar. It was mangled and crushed under the force of his grip.

“Ask her out,” he repeated, jaw aching and fighting the words.

“Why?”

Bucky’s face flushed with an angry heat. Because Darcy Lewis was a goddamned bombshell and Captain America was - _just barely_ \- the only mortal man worthy of a date? Because Lewis was going to _destroy_ him if he kept thinking he stood a chance with her. Because the only way he’d back off was knowing that Steve was taking care of her. Or because - and this one gave him indigestion - he’d _seen_ the way she’d looked at Steve, watched her fumble and stumble every time he entered a room. “You need a reason?”

“Hey, hey!” Steve held up his hands in surrender, “I see plenty of reason to want a girl like that, I ain’t blind or stupid. I just don’t think I’m the best man for the job.”

“You shittin’ me?”

“You won’t even consider it?”

He’d been so busy _considering_ it that he could barely think straight. Bucky held up his mechanical hand and wiggled his fingers. “Because I’m a regular dreamboat these days?”

“Lewis, huh?” Steve scratched at the week’s worth of growth on his cheek. “Good kid. Smart too,” Steve mused.

“I know,” Bucky snapped.

“Stark don’t much like it when she gets at his systems, though. He tries to keep her locked out, for all the good it does him. For someone with a natural affinity for technology, she puts it to some pretty diabolical uses.”

That wasn’t news to Bucky. Her file listed skills that he could barely begin to grasp and ranked her critical thinking up there beside Steve’s. “‘Gets at’? We talkin’ espionage?”

“Rickrolling, actually.”

Bucky frowned at the unfamiliar phrase. “I don’t know what that is.”

“Be sure to keep it that way.”

 

* * *

 

“Ow! _Shit!_ ”

Steve rounded the corner of the corridor to find Darcy Lewis kneeling on the floor sucking on her index finger and scowling at a partially dismantled panel on the wall. The small electronic panel dangled against the wall, held by a few remaining cables. It was, as far as Steve knew, one of the many the access panels that allowed people to move into the more restricted parts of the facility.  Darcy’s glasses were perched low on her nose as she peered crankily into the inner workings of the device. No question as to who had unscrewed it, she had a screwdriver stabbed into her messy hairdo.

“Should you have the power isolated for this?” If he was expecting her to startle or turn, wide-eyed and speechless - as she had at their first introduction - he was sadly mistaken. In fact, this time she barely registered his presence.

“A) Stark won’t give me access to the breakers _or_ grid control.”

Most likely because she’d hardwired all the lights in his suite so that they were permanently illuminated. 

“B)” She continued as she jabbed her zapped finger toward the panel, “It’ll drop the data if I turn it off.”

“And what are you trying to achieve?” Steve crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the wall.

“You won’t approve.”

“To hear Natasha tell it, I rarely do. Tell me anyway.” Then, on further consideration, he added, “Will Stark approve of this?”

“God, no.”

“Then, by all means, continue,” he waved a hand at the panel.

“So this,” she tapped a fingernail against the plain plastic interface of the device, “Uses what we call Near Field Communications, more specifically, Radio-Frequency Identification, or RFID.” Steve nodded, that much he understood, “So you want to enter, you hold your ID up to the scanner and it reads the RFID code and you’re in. You guys,” she nodded to the small plastic device pinned to his collar, it wasn’t much larger than a single Mentos. “You use active RFID, it has a power source so it can transmit further. Just being near one of these readers grants you access.”

“Okay,” Steve nodded, “But this doesn’t control the door. Stark’s computers run the show.”

“Correct,” Darcy nodded and reached for the panel again, “But I’m not trying to get through the door. These smaller panels had RFID repeaters, they read who you are and where you’re trying to access then blast that data to a handful of central nodes that are securely patched into Stark’s system. It’s smart. Minimises the accessible points that people can use to get into the system.”

Steve frowned at her back, “So you can’t use the panel for anything, it just repeats the data?”

“Also correct, but I’m not using it. I’m just getting information from it. The repeater holds the data from the last person to walk through the door.”

Her plan began, though only in part, to solidify in his mind. “The last person through this door wouldn’t happen to have been a particularly vexatious instructor?”

“Again,” Darcy puller her cell phone from her back pocket, “Correct.”

“You followed him?”

This time she did look at him, “You think I’m stupid? He’s a ninja! He’d spot me a mile off. But I did hear him tell Sam, not five minutes ago, that he was on his way to the labs… soooo.”

“How does any of this help you if Stark has blocked access to his system?” Stark had established security parameters that would sound alarms if Darcy strayed too close to one of the facility’s terminals.

“True, it’s a roundabout solution but until Stark relaxes his ‘No Darcy’ policy, it’s all I’ve got. Because what I am _not yet_ prohibited from doing is approaching access panels.This,” she wiggled the cell in her hand, “Is an RFID reader, or at least able to act as one. I get the repeater to blast your man’s details and my reader picks them up.”

“So you can get into anywhere that he’s authorized to go.”

“Anywhere _less_ paranoid than here? Probably. But Stark doesn’t just rely on RFID, he uses biometrics, facial recognition, weight sensors under the floor. RFID alone wouldn’t do it. But again, not what I’m aiming for. I just want his identification code.”

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, it was an awful lot of trouble for just a number. He watched on as she held her phone to the panel and fidgeted with the electronic innards, after a minute she sat back on her heels and tapped at her phone. “Got it,” she held her phone aloft triumphantly.

Steve briefly considered making a grab for her phone and putting a stop to her digital deviancy. Because impressed as he was, the idea was still to keep Bucky’s identity under wraps.

“I wouldn’t,” she sounded almost bored as she waggled her phone. “It’s already been sent to an off-site third party. Don’t insult me.”

“How are you not on the payroll yet?”  Steve was _damn impressed._

“I work for Doctors Foster and Selvig.”

“They work for Stark.”

“S’what _he_ thinks…” she muttered.

“So they pay you?”

“ _Nobody_ pays me,” she sighed, “I get by on goodwill, a complicated barter system and a credit card that’s due to be cancelled any day now.”

And there Steve saw a future window in which to manoeuvre, but he let it hang. “What good does the number do you?”

“Stark is a flamboyant asshole, but he’s also methodical. He has a numbering convention for all his SI identification codes and this might be an Avenger’s facility, but it’s run on Stark tech. If the ID holder is American the number will factor in their Social Security number.”

“And if he doesn’t have one?”

“If they have a service record, which I’m guessing _the ‘Sarge’_ does, it’ll incorporate the eight digits from his service number.”

Steve knew he should have been alarmed by her tenacity, but he could only find himself grinning as he considered the lengths that Darcy was going to to glean information about a man who seemed equally obsessed with her. Still, he’d sought her out with a specific task in mind.

She had turned back to the panel and was busy reattaching it to the wall.

“So, Darcy,” Steve began as he stuffed his hands into his pockets, “I was thinking of asking you to dinner.”

She didn’t flinch, in fact, she _continued_ to talk. “…that’s where it gets easy, service records are partially public record. The Freedom of Information Act means that - at a minimum - I can be provided with a name, date and place of birth and duration of service. It’s damn good starting point.”

Steve tried to suppress his amused grin. “Thought I could buy you a steak-”

“-of course you could save me the hassle and just tell me who he is- ”

“-maybe have my way with you on the table after the main-”

“-though, I’d probably lose bragging rights if you just _told_ me but-”

“-maybe buy you a pony after-”

“-and I mean none of this would even be an issue if… pony? Sorry, were you saying something?”

Steve pushed away from the wall and reached out to help her to her feet. “You misheard.”

“Huh.” She pressed her glasses more firmly up onto her nose.

“So you interested in ‘ _the Sarge’_?”

“What? Pfff,” she waved his words aside, “I never said that.”

“Didn’t need to.”

“I’m making a _point._ ”

Steve chuckled as he moved away. Only point she was making was that she was sweet on Bucky. He’d never been happier to be turned down in his life.

 

* * *

 

“Well, that’s a deal-breaker then, isn’t it?” Jane announced as she chewed on her thumbnail and fussed with something just outside of the dimensions of the Skype window.

“The beard?” Darcy asked.

Jane sighed and focussed on the camera. “The part where he might be a former Hydra assassin.”

Things were bad when _Jane_ had become the voice of reason. Darcy grabbed a handful of pistachios from a bowl on her desk and tucked one foot beneath herself as she began to shell them. “Well, I mean, the Hydra thing is pure speculation. My evidence for that is tenuous at best. Just some shitty cell phone footage and the fact that I _think_ I saw some metal when pervving down his shirt. It’s been two years since then and the official ruling was Hydra cell.”

“But you’re sure about the other thing?”

“Time travelling super-soldier? No, Jane. Not really. Because what are the chances that Rogers isn’t the only one? That there is another and it isn’t just anyone, but Steve’s old-timey buddy?”

“Is he like Steve?” Jane lifted an eyebrow and leaned in.

“Built like or…?” Darcy help up her hand, sweeping them into a simulation of the impressive ‘Vee’ of the ‘Sarge’s’ torso.

“Polite?”

Darcy let her hands fall. “Not the first word that comes to mind. Intense, maybe.”

“Intense, how?”

Her eyes drifted to the two printed images she’d pinned to the board above her desk, a grey portrait of the neat-as-a-pin James Barnes and a grainy screenshot of a violent spectre. “Always there, always saving my ass. Even when sometimes, I think I’d rather just fall flat.” 

Jane made no effort to hide the growing grin on her face, she’d completely abandoned whatever she’d been doing offscreen and tapped the camera. “‘Always there, always saving your ass’. You just described what you do for me. Maybe it’s ‘intense’ because no one has ever done it for you before?”

“No no _no!”_ Darcy wagged her finger at her own camera. “You are all about the _hard_ science, Jane. Don’t go trying to get into my head!”

“Just tell me why you do what you do for me and no ‘six credits’ bullshit.” Ugh. Smart friends were the _worst._

“Because I love you and you haven’t told me to go away yet?” Darcy mumbled, chin dropping so that her words sounded small and muffled in her chest.

Jane held up her hands as if to say ‘there you go’. “I’m just saying, examine your own motives and you might get a little insight into his.”

Darcy made no effort to hide her groan. “I’m going to go now. And do things.”

“Okay, okay. But I just… I just want you to proceed with caution. _Actual_ caution. But remember that the good things can be scary. Look at Thor, for example.”

“I do look at Thor. I _love_ looking at Thor.”

Jane huffed out a little breath and turned her attention back to her work. “It _is_ a bit of a worry though…” she mused a few seconds later, her focus now moving rapidly from the video chat.

“The time travelling or the Hydra part?” Darcy asked.

“The beard.”

 

* * *

 

“He _just_ did it again,” Siobhan Dylan whispered excitedly and nudged Darcy’s thigh with her boot. Both women were kneeling on a tarpaulin, cold fingers going through the process of crimping lengths of fuse cord to small detonators. Darcy sniffed in the cold morning air and tried to pretend that she wasn’t _fully aware_ that it was the third time Steve had jerked his head in her direction while fixing ‘Sarge’/Barnes/who knew with a pointed stare. He had all the subtlety of a mother desperately trying to set up her unwed, middle-aged daughter. Not more that a few feet behind her Barnes stalked back and forth over a small tract of land, hands stuffed into the pockets of his customary black tactical getup while he let his focus rove everywhere that Darcy wasn’t.

“Are you going to pay attention to the _explosive detonator_ in your hands, or is my flatlined love life more exciting to you?” Darcy asked as she sat back onto her heels to measure out a length of fuse cord.

“Both have the potential to end with a bang,” Siobhan leered. Normally, Siobhan was great company and the Irish forensic accountant was a kindred spirit in a class of people with military and law enforcement backgrounds. “Besides,” she continued as she snipped at her own length of fuse, “It’s not like we’re putting them into actual explosives yet.”

Still, as Sam had explained at the beginning of the lesson, the detonator alone had the power and heat to cause a pretty worrying little blast. By way of demonstration he’d stuffed a detonator into a filled Gatorade bottle, set it sixty feet away and then lit the fuse. The resulting blast had left an immense sticky-sweet cloud and not a trace of the bottle. Enough to take your face off, at any rate.

“Besides,” Siobhan continued. “It wasn’t that difficult at all.”

And then Darcy heard the unexpected ‘snick’ of a match being lit. She dropped her own uncrimped detonator and whirled around, eyes going wide as she saw that Siobhan was holding her lit detonator up with a grin. 

Siobhan’s grin vanished as soon as she saw the fear on Darcy’s face. “What?”

“You’re meant to put it _over there_ ,” she waved her arm frantically in the direction of the ordnance range, “ _Then_ light it! And why is that fuse so short?”

“I did the formula right, 28 centimetres.”

“ _Inches_.”

Nobody would have thought to double-check Siobhan’s math, the woman knew numbers the way that Stark knew STIs.

“Fu-” Siobhan knuckles turned white as her hand reflexively tightened around the detonator. Darcy could see that she’d frozen into inactivity and shot to her feet, nails raking along Siobhan’s wrist until the unexpected pain loosened her grip. Detonator in hand, Darcy thought to hurl it away. The fuse was burning too fast and was far too tightly secured into the detonator to risk trying to yank it free. Her arm swung back in a wide arc as she prepared to throw it and -

From behind, one arm tensed with muscle wrapped around her middle and lifted her clear off her feet. A hard gloved hand plucked the detonator from her fingertips in a single precise move before dumping her a few feet away onto the ground. She hit the dirt with a graceless ‘ _omph_ ’ and scrambled up onto her hands and knees just in time to see Barnes close his gloved hand around the detonator and swing it, stiff-jointed, behind his back and away from her.

A horrifying second ticked over and then came a strangled pop, like a shitty Eurpoean car backfiring, followed by a small puff of heat and dirt. Darcy’s ears rang as Siobhan scrambled to her side to help her up. Her Irish accent grew thicker as she sobbed out a stream of apologies and tried to lead Darcy back to where the rest of the group was being shepherded back by Sam. Darcy shrugged her off, instead catching a break in Steve’s slipstream as he crowded in at Barnes’ side to stare down at his hand. The hand that should very well be nothing but a gnarled and bloody stump. It wasn’t, of course, but that didn’t lessen the nauseating tattoo of Darcy’s heartbeat as she approached and peered around his shoulder.

“Of all the stupid _Goddamned_ …” Steve, God bless him, had begun to speak and was sharing a sentiment that Darcy herself was too shaken to voice.

“She was gonna take her fucken hand off with that thing!” He snapped as he turned his left palm upward and opened his fingers. _Oh yeah, definitely not human._ The leather glove on his hand hadn’t fared well, it was busted open in some spots and barely covered his thumb. Two of the fingers were a little sluggish, his pinkie didn’t respond at all and remained curled tight. 

“I was going to toss it!” Darcy defended as she jammed her shoulders in between Steve and Barnes and dropped her face down to inspect his hand. Over her head, Steve and James didn’t quit taking verbal shots at one another.

“Not like it was a _grenade_ or anything,” Barnes growled. 

“And now I have to explain to a class full of people why that didn’t blow your hand off!”

“You got a Goddamned witch on staff and _I’m_ the hard thing to explain?”

“ _Hey!_ ” Darcy squeaked in Wanda’s defense as she gently tried to roll up the sleeve of Barnes’ long-sleeve shirt. He yanked his arm away and Darcy rolled her eyes, unperturbed as she moved on to instead plucking small bits of debris from the front of his form-fitting shirt. Beneath her fingertips his chest heaved rapidly and she realized he was still struggling with a surfeit of adrenaline.

“Look,” Steve scrubbed his hand over his face as he huffed out a breath, “I’ll handle this. Get out of here and take your gal with you.”

“Ain’t my g-”

“Hey!” This time Darcy wasn’t sure what she was protesting, Steve referring to her as his friend’s ‘gal’ or Barnes’ almost reflexive denial.

“Just take her, you two can hash out the particulars when you’re all done _growing the Hell up_.”

Barnes screwed his face up into a frustrated pout as he considered his options. A few seconds passed and he plucked his tattered shirt from Darcy’s fingers and made a grab for her wrist as if to drag her along. 

“Hey!” This time there was genuine hurt and heat behind the word, “I’ll find my own way,” she snapped before turning on her heel and marching resolutely toward the accommodation wing.

 

* * *

 

“You’ll need to unclench your fist for the diagnostic scanner to work,” Vision’s calm neutral tone did nothing to help Bucky’s mood and it took far too much concentration to will his hand to relax. The scanner made him nervous as Hell. Worse still, he knew his stunt meant hours of work on the hand. Still he had a few hours of reprieve, Vision and the equipment were good at repairs and upgrades but they still relied on Tony to look over the scans. He had a knack for seeing problems before they happened and it would take some time for him to properly assess the damage.

Bucky slumped back in his chair. Of all the ways he’d imagined her realizing who he was, that had to have been worse than anything he’d baked up in his head. And he’d imagined some pretty awful scenarios. Steve had told him she wouldn’t stay out of his business for long, had ‘strongly suggested’ that Bucky sit her down and be honest with her. 

What would that have sounded like, he wondered. _Well, Honey. I’ve killed. Will probably kill again. But I can take you for coffee and get us a senior discount._

It was a fragile thing, his wanting Darcy. She was the first thing he’d wanted - beyond needing to be near Steve - in a damn long time. First woman since… well, he thought he might remember women somewhere in those long years of winter. They came to him, forced or curious. Rewards that felt like anything but. People watched and he’d… what? Performed? Obliged? 

That’s why Darcy mattered. She made him smile. Made him want. Made him hard.

Scared the Hell out of him too. Seeing her with that detonator in her hand. _Lord protect me from fucken’ heroes._

Wanda let out a haughty little sniff from her perch on a bench in the corner of the clinic. Nobody bothered to question why she was there, her unusual affinity with Vision had become the norm over the past months. Hard to say who needed that bond more: Wanda had calmed over the months and Vision had become more… _more._

“Something on your mind, Wanda?”

“I like Darcy.” She announced as she plucked at the sleeve of her cardigan. “You do, also.”

Bucky’s nod was small but clear.

“The acquaint course finishes on Friday.” She moved to the other sleeve of her cardigan, inspecting it for imaginary lint. “If she is on that bus, I promise you: I will banish your favorite rifle to a tundra so remote and inhospitable that not even Heimdall could locate it for you.”

Bucky let out a mirthless laugh. If Darcy was on that bus he would _volunteer_ for the excursion himself.

“Any suggestions on how I can bring her around?”

Wanda pursed her lips in consideration. “Darcy. Like Pietro. Fast. Different type of fast,” she tapped one finger to her temple. “All mouth and you get too busy listening. You never see them coming ’til they got you.”

“And that’s s’posed to help me?” Bucky frowned as Vision released his wrist from the scanner so that he could pull his sweater back on.

“Oh, you think I was on your side?” Wanda’s smile was the stuff of evil. “You _earn_ her or you don’t. But I’ll tell you something for nothing: there’s a pretty boy under all that hair. Handsome face like that could buy you a few weeks. If you can find it.”

 

* * *

 

Darcy was still in her ensuite washing the gravel from the palms of her hands when he knocked at her door. She had expected a little more time before he showed his face, but she still had a little anger in the tank and had no problem tapping into it when she threw her door open.

“What?” 

He stood there, still in the clothes he’d been wearing when he’d - _unnecessarily -_ come to her rescue. He wasn’t as intimidating as he’d once been. Before she would have only seen a wall of black clothes and hair, as effective as any costume or mask. Now she saw the little things: the dark pink of his lips peeking through his beard, the wary brown eyes, the brilliant silver of his uncovered left hand. Beneath the funk of spent detonator she could still smell bergamot and clove and it was _safe_ and it warmed her. Her shoulders slumped as she stepped back to let him into her room. She wasn’t angry, not really.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine. Did I…” he scratched uncomfortably at his beard, “Did I hurt you when I threw you down?”

Darcy shook her head, she was trying hard to not let her focus drift to his hand. Knew she was being rude.

Catching her gaze, he held it up for inspection. The little finger was still curled in on itself and the others seemed to be a little sluggish. “Can they fix it?”

“In a while, Stark needs to look at the diagnostics.”

Darcy reached out, her finger hovering over his upturned palm. When he didn’t move, she took it as permission to trace her fingertip up his thumb and across his palm. “Stark? I’m surprised he hasn’t painted it red yet.”

“He asked.”

Darcy looked up and caught one cheek lifting into a lopsided grin. His smile made her bold. “Can I see it all?”

“You mean…” He plucked at the zipper of his sweatshirt. 

“You don’t have to,” Darcy realized that maybe she’d pushed things too far, asked for too much.

He stepped back into the middle of the room and shed his hoodie, then reached for the hem of his wrecked shirt. The fingers of his right hand shook and Darcy hated herself instantly. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

He nodded to the two pictures above her desk, his focus on the one that showed him in his most violent form. “You should know. You should see, make sure I’m safe.” He hauled the shirt over his head and stood shirtless in front her her, chest rising and falling as though he were doing something far more taxing than simply taking his top off.

“I know you’re safe,” Darcy protested as she stepped up to him. “You’re the safest thing in my life right now.”

He seemed bigger without the shirt, which was ridiculous. His skin was golden, odd since he wasn’t exactly a regular sunbather. Muscle bunched and twitched under her scrutiny and she had to shake herself to remember that she was meant to be looking at his arm. Darcy led with her hand, rude and inappropriate as it was, first landing on the unblemished skin immediately next to the raised scarring where man and machine married. His skin was warm going on hot, firm and smooth. But the scarring… he’d been butchered in such a careless way. “The people who did this… are they dead?”

“Most.”

“Did you kill them?”

A pause, then, “Eventually.”

“Good. Does it hurt?” she asked before letting her hand move further.

“Not anymore.”

Her fingertip traced over the curve of his shoulder, testing the temperature and give of the individual plates. At the highest point of his shoulder a matte silver star had been polished into his arm. She traced it, reminded of the star on Steve’s shield. Toward his bicep the plates grew cooler, lukewarm at best. She picked an individual plate and pressed against it, after a half second delay it shifted. “So what’s your name, stranger?” she murmured as she tilted her face up to catch his eyes.

“James Barnes. Or Bucky. But you know that.”

Darcy let her hand drop back to her side. “Who else are you?”

“I’m a scrolling footnote on CNN. Violent skirmishes at borders that form as quickly as they vanish. I’m a ghost.”

“Well,” Darcy rocked back on her heels and lifted a single eyebrow. “I don’t know about all that, but you’re certainly dramatic.”

“You think I’m joking?” He narrowed his eyes at her, the tendons in his neck jumping with agitation.

“I think it’s as far from a joke as it gets. I think that you were damaged by Hydra and they, my friend, do not fuck around. Ghosts are dead and you can’t be that, because you’re _here_.” Darcy planted her hand over his heart, her fingers splayed out over feverish skin. Her thumb passed over his nipple and she couldn’t stop herself from taking another few passes, rubbing across the hard rivet. 

His hand slipped over hers, trapping it against his chest. “I’m not a hero. Never was. And I don’t want any more heroes in my life. No more snatching live detonators.”

He didn’t want her to be a hero? Shit, well, the man was in _luck_. Darcy was as far from heroic as it got.

“What _do_ you want?” It was a loaded question and, just to load a little more into it, Darcy stepped further into his space and bumped her knees against his shins.

If she’d been expecting more of the gruff, mild antagonism that had marked their dealings thus far, she was going to be disappointed. Or, well, _not_ disappointed, as it happened. Bucky was all speed and forward momentum as his hands dropped to catch the back of her thighs and haul her up against him. In the face of such open want and sexual aggression Darcy was utterly graceless as she squawked and grappled at his shoulders. It was different, the way she was gripping him. It wasn’t the awed and tender exploration of the minutes just passed, it was terror borne of the unexpected way that he’d hauled her off her feet and it was a proprietary sort of need that told her this time, this place, this _man…_ they were hers if she had the fortitude to take them.

Her arms tightened around his shoulders, her fingers pressed firmly at the base of his skull, slipping up into his hair and tangling there as she tried to loosen his carelessly sexy ponytail. She gripped his hips more tightly with her thighs, in part to keep from falling on her ass - though she never really doubted that he had her firmly in his grip - and partly to let him know that she was _so fucking down_ with what he was doing. Darcy rolled her hips, rocked them without rhythm, the seam of her jeans catching against the thick fly of his trousers. It was a trashy thing to do, she was _complete_ trash for using the hurt man who’d reached for her in such a way. She rocked once, twice, more and then tried to still herself. She was sending the wrong message, dry humping had a way of saying ‘bend me over the desk’ and what she was aiming for was ‘bend me over the desk _respectfully_ ’.

Bucky gave a shuddery sigh as he dropped his face into her neck. His beard teased at her skin as she flexed her fingers against his scalp. She wanted to comfort him but she also wanted _more,_ so she coaxed his face toward the neckline of her henley and hummed softly when she felt his lips and nose nudging against the vee of her shirt.

He spoke then, a hoarse whisper directed into her cleavage.  “Tell me to stop.”

 _Lol, no._ She mentally thrust aside the utterly unhelpful thought and moved her fingers to stroke at his temples until he looked up at her. It was possible he was asking because _he_ wanted to stop. “You don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to,” she said gently, trying to sound calmly neutral and not at all desperate to keep going.

“And if I want to?” he asked, rocking his hips between her thighs pointedly.

Darcy leaned in and up, mouth first, as she angled for a kiss and hoped like Hell she wasn't about to get a mouthful of beard. Bucky, bless him, met her half way. His mouth was just the right amount of open as her lips slipped over his bottom lip in a just-shy-of-chaste series of small kisses. His breath slipped into her mouth, warm coffee and sharp peppermint as he let out a groan and adjusted his grip on her thighs. She felt a little discomfort where his prosthetic gripped her clumsily, fingers still not entirely as responsive as they’d been before the small blast. There wasn’t a _chance_ that she’d complain though. Instead, she focussed on the tentative taps of his tongue against her top lip and opened her mouth to him as her tongue stroked the underside of his and the kiss became something else, something needier and more frantic.

She had to hand it to him: guy was a stellar kisser (though she liked to think that she was no slouch in that particular department). Of course no one had dedicated an exhibition to _her_ conquests. Unlike Barnes who had - she had discovered this after trawling the virtual exhibition at the Smithsonian - an entire _display_ dedicated to all the photo booth prints Barnes had managed to take with various women at Coney Island. There’d been at least twenty photo booth strips in the display and Darcy couldn’t help but think of all the other women who’d held their own mementos tightly into their twilight years, remembering the dark eyed man who’d held them for a few short nights. She wondered if she’d feel an affinity with them, those woman who’d doubtlessly made love with the laughing, handsome, clean-cut Lothario in those tiny images. She didn’t think so, the James Barnes in those pictures was so far removed from the immense and _intense_ man holding her as though she _meant something._ Darcy nipped at his tongue and pulled back from the kiss as she leaned her bodyweight back toward the small single bed trying to steer him toward it. He took the hint and dropped her gently onto the bed so that she was sitting on the edge, bare toes resting on the floor. The brightly coloured Swedish thimble-blossom quilt was a treasured gift, sent by Erik to make her room more homey. She had since collected a multitude of bright cushions and stuffed animals to ‘pep up’ the place. It all seemed a bit childish with Bucky standing there, looking down at her and breathing hard. She’d spent so much of her training looking stupid, looking like she was out of her depth and there she was on that hideously frou-frou bed probably confirming that she wasn’t made of the same ‘stuff’ that he was. Cushions went flying as she frantically tried to shove them to the floor to make room, at the final sweep of her arm Bucky reached out and saved something from her purge. He looked down at the Thor bear in his hand - a gift from the Big Guy himself - and sighed a little. He carefully set the bear aside on her bedside table and Darcy had to stop herself from grinning. He paused, looked more closely at the bear, then reached out and turned him so that he wasn’t facing the bed.

“Can’t help but think he’d disapprove,” he murmured as he rubbed one hand over the back of his neck.

Darcy was inclined to agree. Thor would disapprove _mightily_. But then Thor wasn’t watching the way that Bucky’s muscles jumped over his torso as he clearly waited for her to make the next move. Actually, Thor could go jump off an Einsten-Rosen Bridge for all she cared.

God, how powerful and terrifying it had been to have someone so _potent_ just standing by her bed waiting for her command, waiting for her to want him. And she _did_. So much. Darcy lifted her henley overhead, fluffing her hair a little as she went. She threw it aside and briefly lamented that she wasn't wearing anything more exciting than a plain white t-shirt bra, but Bucky - bless him - seemed just fine with that as he rubbed one shaking hand across his mouth as he tried, and failed, not to focus solely on her breasts.

“C’mon,” she said as she thumped the bed next to her, but instead of joining her he dropped to his knees and found himself a place between her legs. She reached for him again, but his hands were already moving toward the fly of her jeans. 

“I gotta…” He dropped his face as if trying to think of the words, “Gotta finish what I started the other day, kid. Can’t think of anything else.”

Her jeans slipped down over her hips easily enough, they’d been a little roomy since she’d started the acquaint course (though she’d gladly reclaim those few pounds if it meant she could give up running). It wasn’t a usual starting point for her. She could count on one hand (one finger, actually) the number of partners she’d had go down on her (Ian had been so sweetly conscientious in that regard) and there was Bucky tossing her jeans aside and eyeing her floral underwear with an earnest sort of hunger. As they were, her knees bracketed his ribs. He sat back onto his heels as he slipped her underwear down her thighs then awkwardly rearranged her legs until they rested on his shoulders. 

Darcy flopped back on the the mattress, her head just grazing the wall as she pressed her hands to her face and tried to breathe through her embarrassment. It was _ten-fucking-AM,_ there were rules about putting your junk out in the open while the sun was still out.

He was close enough that she could feel his breath on her and, yeah, she was more than a little wet. It wasn’t until he gave a low whistle of appreciation that she propped herself up on her elbows and looked down at him. “Ain’t seen this close-up before,” he spoke softly against her.

She actually had to snort at that. “Discovery Channel disagrees, my friend.”

He looked up to her face, a little chastised. “I meant bare. Pretty, pink, wet, _bare_ and all mine for the time being.” He dropped a quick kiss to the tiny indent at the top of her pussy. “And don’t be so sure, I’ve been uh… a little gun shy for a while.”

“Yeah,” Darcy settled up onto her elbows and watched him. “You seem like a real blushing virgin down there.”

It was his turn to snort as he rubbed his beardy chin against the inside of her thigh. “Just like fucken’ Rogers, you know that? Too bad he didn’t take a run at you while he stood a chance.”

Darcy directed a conspiratorial whisper down her body toward him, “Turns out he probably never did have a chance. Apparently I like my men stupid and socially graceless.”

He turned his face more firmly into her thigh to smother a laugh. “One day I’ll tell you why that’s so Goddamned funny.”

But not that day, apparently, because he was far too busy dealing with the very serious business of going down on her. He knew what he was about too and seemed to be in no particular rush as he used the thumb of his real hand to open her a little and ran his tongue in long lazy strokes over her spread pussy. Darcy dropped back down onto her back and pressed her hands over her eyes. He drew it out; lapping, groaning and breathing against her, suckling her clit until actual tears started to fall silently from the corners of her eyes and her hips arched up as she pressed her hands to the back of his head and selfishly pressed his face between her thighs. She didn’t let herself come, though. It would have been such an easy thing to do, God knew he’d been working so hard to pull that one climax for her. He looked almost petulant, lips pressed together in a mealy-mouthed sulk when she tugged gently at his hair and pulled him up and away. He leaned back in, just once more, to wipe his slick mouth off on the inside of her thigh - _fuck -_ before settling back onto his heels by the bed.

He was so obediently poised that it almost broke her heart. Again, he was waiting for her cue and she needed, so fucking badly, for him to fuck her. But she took a few moments to watch his shoulders bunch and jump with barely checked agitation. Even the smaller plates of his prosthetic buzzed and shifted erratically, as if unsure how to respond to whatever mental cues he was putting out. His fingers rubbed harshly against the impressive ridge of flesh pressing against his trousers, Darcy spied a small dark spot that belied just how much he needed her too. “M’sorry,” he muttered as he looked down at himself, as if she’d caught him doing something terrible. 

It crystallized then, that for every way he had her back there were still things she could do for him. Sex, yes, obviously, but there was more than that. She could watch; see the need in him, the hurt. Listen to the things he’d never voice.

Darcy shuffled away from him, backed up until she was fully on the bed. She took a second to shed her bra and waved him over. It wasn’t a sexy ‘come hither’. It was a wave that said, ‘you belong up here with me’.

He stood and reached for the fly of his trousers, but his prosthetic still seemed a little glitchy and just as frustration began to show on his face and his knuckles turned white in preparation to yank the damn thing open, Darcy came up on to her knees and settled her hands over his to still them. She didn’t falter as she undid his pants - probably a testament to how absolutely she wanted him. She was careful as she eased his boxer briefs down with his pants and paused to admire the way his neat, thick cock bounced free as she shoved the lot down his thighs and left him to kick free of them. There was a pause in proceedings as he dealt with his boots and socks, but scant seconds passed before he was standing bare-assed naked in front of her, suddenly endearingly uncertain about what to do with his hands. She, however, knew exactly what to do with her hands as she reached out to wrap her palm around him. Uncut cocks were a new thing for her, but she wasn’t a complete babe in the woods, so she watched his face as she gripped his foreskin and gently drew it forward to slide over the darkly flushed head of his cock. He leaned in to her touch, one hand _finally_ instinctively finding her breast gently massaging it as she continued to work him with her hand. With her free hand she reached down to stroke at his heavy sac, she raked her nails gently through the dark hair at the base of his cock then slipped below to toy with him. She could have gone on for a long while, even considered taking him into her mouth, but then he spoke. His voice was rough and just a little strangled. “Enough, Lewis. Quit dickin’ around and let me at you.”

Were she in a more lucid frame of mind she might have stopped to point out just how _delightful_ she found his phraseology. Instead, she simply let him press his chest to hers as he gathered her up into his arms and lowered her back down to the bed, he followed her down and found himself tightly cradled between her thighs - just where she wanted him. He tapped her hip gently, a little prod to get her to loosen her legs up and open herself to him.

Around the room morning sunshine touched on bare skin and raw nerves and neither of them gave a single damn as Darcy reached between their bodies and helped him press the generous head of his cock against her pussy, then left him to make the final charge. It was a tentative push at first, not too much and she was smart enough to be grateful. As turned on and wet as she was even that first tiny intrusion was a shock to her, to him too if the way he dropped his face into her neck was any indication. She ran her hands down the hard muscle of his back and anchored her fingernails into his ass, just to hold him in place until she was ready for more. When his gasps against her throat turned into hot open-mouthed kisses, she realised that he was ready for more. Darcy widened her knees and turned her face, her nose rubbing clumsily against his ear as she quietly prompted him for more. So he gave. _And gave._ And when he was finally seated fully in her she squirmed beneath him, needing more and less and… a slick sort of friction that she was pretty certain she’d either die without or be unable to handle. His hands gripped her where thigh met ass and she focussed on that one damaged metal finger poking at her as she began to move her hips and loosen her grip in his behind, giving him a little room to move with.

The more he moved, the better it felt. The harder he fucked, the more she wanted him. It was a frustrating, loud, messy event and she’d never had anything even _close_ to it. 

“Come,” he rasped as his mouth sought out hers. “ _Come._ ” He begged again, words spoken directly into her mouth.

God, how they _sounded._ His hips slamming against hers and the indelicate wet noise that said just how into it she was. His breath was ragged and her own had to be approaching choking gasps. 

“ _Please,_ come,” he said against the side of her mouth, something close to panic in his voice.

Her reply, “Come with me,” was lost as she finally did come, one hand fisting in her pretty quilt, the other gripping his tight ass and drawing him close as a throaty scream rushed through her chest. The tight ache between her hips unfurled rapidly, sparking and running along her limbs until she lost control of fingers and toes and they curled and twitched. The strength of it was little surprise, the had _worked damn hard_ to get to that point. She only hoped that it was as good for him as he surged up into her and held himself perfectly still as his shoulders gave three neat little shivers as he came in heated pulses, then he was back to gripping her hips and gently rocking into her a few times before his sensitive cock couldn't stand it any more. She was almost thankful when he withdrew, she was feeling a little sensitive herself.

There was a little shuffling, a little awkwardness as they rearranged themselves on top of the quilt. 

Darcy was harshly reminded why the daylight thing should have been a hard and fast rule. Post-coital administration was sucky at the best of times, dim lighting usually helped. But there they were, both bare-assed naked and suddenly a little cold. All the things that had seemed so utterly sexy just moments ago now seemed glaringly weird. Her neck, breasts and thighs shone like red beacons, his beard having irritated her skin slightly. She desperately wanted to reach between her legs and stem the trickle of his come before she made a mess, but doing so would have drawn attention. It raised another issue: unprotected sex was now apparently a thing that she did and if that didn’t invite a hefty dose of self-scrutiny, nothing would. She was pretty sure her pill would cover the shortfall, but that was something she’d _never_ planned to rely on.

Bucky was lying on his back, forearm braced over his eyes as he tried to regulate his breathing. His still half-hard cock rested thickly against his thigh and Darcy wondered if he felt any of the self-consciousness that was assailing her. She was pale, her stomach was _never_ going to be flat, her hair was a disaster and her skin now blotchy. She was a fucked-out mess and while that was just fine by her, she had to wonder if it would be at all appealing to him. 

He was taking up the bulk of the bed, though Darcy was fairly certain he didn’t realise that, and she’d been backed against the wall. Worse still, his mechanical arm was the closest thing to her and with it glitching and constantly shifting she didn’t want to lean against it and risk being pinched by the plates… but then there was the very real chance he’d think she was avoiding his arm which… well, _yes,_ but not for the reasons he’d suspect.

Other questions surfaced: was he a snuggler? Was _she?_ Was he going to stay at half-mast? Because she wasn’t sure she’d cope with going at it again so soon. Was he going to open his eyes anytime soon because she-

She started as the phone on her desk rang, the tone cutting through the silent room. She damn near vaulted from the bed to answer it, grabbing and shrugging into a button-down nightshirt as she surreptitiously pressed her sticky thighs together and tucked the phone against her shoulder. “Uh, yeah?” Her phone manner was usually better, but she was a little thrown as she looked to the bed where Bucky was finally stirring, sitting up to brace one elbow against his knee as he fixed her with an inscrutable expression.

“Darcy?” It was Steve and, not for the first time, she kind of wished it wasn’t.

“Uh,” she cleared her throat and watched as Bucky released his hair to comb his fingers through it. “What’s up, Cap?” She added the title specifically so that Bucky would know who was on the line.

It was some small comfort that Steve sounded just about as uncomfortable as she felt. “Well, I uh, I wouldn’t mean to _presume_ that Bucky is in your room with you…”

“Oh, it’s _Bucky_ now, is it?” she snapped, a little waspishly. The guy in question simply secured his hair once more and sat perfectly still on her bed as he watched her.

“Well, you tell me.”

Honestly, despite everything that had just happened, she wasn’t even _sure._ “I’ll let you know. Also, not much to _presume_ when the security system probably has him logged as being in my room.”

“Well, figured that you two might have a lot to discuss,” Steve was trying his best to be tactful.

Darcy was having none of it. “For…” she looked at the time on her cell phone, “Forty-five minutes? I haven't known him to be that talkative.”

“Give him a chance to surprise you,” Steve replied. “And while you’re at it, tell him Stark is inbound. About five minutes away.”

“Wilco, Captain!” She hung up her phone and perched her butt against the desk. “Tony’s almost here,” she told Bucky.

He gave a small nod and slipped from the bed to begin gathering and donning all of his clothes. Darcy wanted, desperately, for him to do something to salvage the morning; a small kiss, some hint at a future meeting. _Anything._

“That wasn’t the plan,” he half-mumbled.

 _Anything but that_ , Darcy mentally amended as she wrapped her arms around her ribs. “Oh?” She gave a curt nod toward the door, “You can take your plan and…” The ‘ _fuck off_ ’ was only implied, but very clearly understood by Bucky.

 

* * *

 

She was gone.

She was gone and he was genuinely surprised. Okay, so her last words hadn’t been great but _not a single_ encounter between them had ended on good terms, so that hadn’t seemed overly alarming to him. 

And, okay, maybe it had been a little unwise ( _cowardly_ ) to give her so long to cool down about the whole thing. When he’d told her that sleeping with her hadn’t been ‘the plan’ it had been a half-truth. Getting Darcy into bed was very much _the plan_ , what he'd failed to articulate was that it had never been the _whole_ plan. She’d deserved better than what he’d given her. Not the sex. He was certain, bastardized serum or not, that he’d have a _heart attack_ trying to outdo that one blazing episode. He still felt a little stupefied and humbled when he thought about it. That she’d let him touch her, that she’d let him take her so thoroughly… he couldn’t get it out of his mind. Even as he’d gone through the last few days trying to sort his head out, he’d continually circled back to her. The plan, the _new_ plan, had been to call on her officially. He’d braved the small nearby township for a hot shave and a haircut, forgone the Brylcreem for something more up-to-date, brought new slacks and properly pressed them. He’d stopped short of starching his shirt because Steve had told him that was rarely done anymore. Flowers, however, never went out of style. Natasha had told him as much. He’d considered asking Wanda for further advice, but couldn’t be sure that Darcy hadn’t already spoken to her. He wasn’t entirely certain how far Wanda’s magical abilities reached and that wasn’t a risk he’d been prepared to take.

So instead he stood in the doorway to Darcy’s room, miserably tapping a bunch of cheery tulips against his thigh as he stared at the only things she’d left in the room - the two photographs of him pinned above the desk.

Steve had implored him the very day Tony had visited not to leave it too late, not to wait until the day the course let out. But he knew then - with a clarity he could have used four hours prior - that he’d deliberately waited that long. He’d wanted to test her, see if she wanted him as badly as he wanted her. Only he realized too late that he'd rather have made her stay without having that question answered than be miserable with the answer _and_ be without her.

He moved into the room and snatched the pictures from the board before stuffing them into his pocket.

He was going to have to go and get her, that wasn't even a question, but he did hate leaving the facility. He wasn't too big to admit that, it was one of the few places he felt safe - most likely because it was where Steve had based himself too. Last he’d checked, Foster had been lecturing in Oslo and Europe, as a general rule, wasn’t high on his list of desired places to be. Still, he sighed as he tucked the tulips roughly under his arm, had to be done. Actually, it occurred to him that she only had a few hours’ advantage, _max_. There was every chance that he’d be able to catch her at the airport. The thought cheered him up considerably as he picked up his pace and broke into a jog. The shortest route the garage was to leave the accommodation block and pass by the gym and pool, it was miserable outside. The sky was overcast and it was drizzling, he veered off toward the garage but stumbled to a halt as he sighted a lone figure with a distinctive running style slowly progressing around the track beyond the gym.

He dropped his flowers to the gravel. She loped closer and, yeah, it was _absolutely_ Darcy. Nobody else in the world ran like that. Nobody would _want_ to.

“Lookin’ kind of peaky, Barnes,” she huffed out as she neared him. “If you’re gonna puke, may I suggest that spot over there?” She nodded to where she herself had thrown up more than a few times. “‘Course could just be that you need a little sun on your naked face. And, by the way, congratulations on _that face._ ” She was rambling. A little nervous, even. Nervous was good. Nervous he could work with, it meant she was still invested. “I mean I saw the photos, but _hot damn_ you are pretty.” _That,_ also, he could work with. 

He gave her his best smile. It shook a little, but it wasn't bad considering how long he’d gone without using it. “Glad to see you’re still here.”

“Well, uh,” she was addressing his ear, just a little too nervous to look directly at him. “Tony offered me a job.”

His gut jumped, “And you took it?”

“No, I told him to ‘jam it’. Then Steve offered me the same job five minutes later and I took _that._ ” By the time she was done she was talking to a point on the ground behind him. She seemed genuinely unsure about how he'd take her news. She was so beautifully stupid about some things. “I even get paid real money now,” she continued as she plucked at the knee of her track pants. “Could probably spring for a date, if you were interested. Like Chipotle or Subway, though, because, y’know, I’m still waiting on that first paycheck. But I mean only if you-”

“You left the pictures.” Damn his stupid mouth, but it _was_ bothering him.

That got her to look at him, “Well, _yeah,_ ” she began, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You aren’t those men. Not anymore, anyway. It’s not… not how I see you.”

“How do you see me?” He asked as he moved toward her.

“Just… _you._ ” She answered as she reached out and ran her fingers down over the buttons on the front of his shirt, “You’re kind of cranky and bristly, but also… not. You care about me and I don’t always know what to do with that, but mostly I think I kind of like it. You know? It’s new.”

He pushed a few sweaty strands of hair behind her ear and pulled her in close. “I see you too, Darce. You are brilliant and so beautiful. And you never see your own victories, not the way you should. You’re sad when you only run four laps to someone else’s ten, but I just see a woman who struggled through four hard laps when yesterday she could only run three.”

Darcy dropped her face against his chest to hide a fragile little smile. “Also,” she added, quite possibly to deflect his compliments, “You’re no slouch in the looks department. Or the sex department, if you must know.”

“Back atcha, Beautiful.”

She looked up at him with a contemplative smile, “The lack of beardedness might take a bit of getting used to.”

“I could grow it back if you liked it?” He’d probably dye it green if she liked that too.

She leaned into him and let him steer her back toward his own accommodation block. “I like this,” she confirmed as she brushed her knuckles gently over his cheek. “And I mean...nthe beard… Wanda managed to get the worst of the rash from my face, but I couldn’t bring myself to ask her to do my thighs too.”

“I should probably have a look at that,” he ventured, hand slipping down to her hip.

“Not until I’ve unpacked.”

“Where did they put you?” It was probably a little early to be asking her to move her stuff into his suite of rooms, even if that was exactly what he wanted to do.

“Two doors down from you, I have connections. I actually know the Team Leader of the Avengers. Of course it’s your neighborly duty to help me unpack.” Then, a little more seriously, “I kind of didn’t want to unpack until I’d spoken with you. You know, in case the idea tanked.”

He squeezed her hip to reassure her, “I want you around.”

“Out of interest,” Darcy waved a hand over her shoulder to where the bunch of crushed tulips rested on the ground, “Those mine?”

Bucky looked back at the sadly mangled flowers. “Nope.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

“Because if they were-”

“They aren’t.” No _way_ was he handing her such a miserable offering.

“Okay,” she continued to argue as he held open the door to the building, “But if they _were…_ I’d love them.”

“Fine,” he sighed as he leaned against the door. “They _might_ be yours.”

Her throaty little laugh of triumph stayed with him as she galloped off to go retrieve her flowers.


End file.
